Laxmi, Lachchmi (my grandmother)
She was a simple soul
No, she never cared about
things that are not worth caring about
For instance, she never cared about cricket,
or tv serials, or movies
And dismissed all that with a one liner
"yo laambe laambe chehre"
These long faces..
For somewhere inside she knew
that faces are better.
they are not like the diplomatic faces on the television...
that faces are better, like, like
those of her children...
'Sham, Fulad, Raj, Munna and Lala'
like, like..
those of her grandchildren,
maybe like Manu's face,
which was sweetest to her..
on whose birth she had danced and sang,
while beating spoon frantically on the plate...
And what about her grip?
the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm
and dragged them back to house
in the fear that they may get lost
Manu hated it,
for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!
how could he know that this lady, his grandmother
had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was
a nightmare to her!
She who lost her father's family to plague,
And then many of her children at birth..
how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!
Wasn't she a saint?
Her tragedies and then, her devotion to God,
her singing of 'Bhootan ke dere mein, bhaj le pyare, tu sahara'
'where I am trapped in this pit of ghosts, it is you god, who will get me out'
every morning.....
She knew a secret, deep inside that this modern generation doesn't
(though she knew nothing of cricket scores, and once when Manu tried to explain her
cricket, he came to the point of forgetting himself)..
just one rhythm, like Meera's can take you across..it is all that matters
nothing else does....
And what about her cloth and cotton parrots?
Can any living artist suffuse so much love into his art?
the love that she suffused into the parrots she made for Manu..
Art is for love, not for diplomacy,
yes, she knew that too!
And her tale of Hallaq Kuttaq
Wasn't that masaledar??
Manu loved that
and went around the streets repeating it..
'Hallaq Kuttaq it's your turn,
Let your tail put put burn!'
She didn't know how to read and write
She couldn't write her name for that
'Laxmi...(Lachchmi as it was pronounced)'
And when somebody teased her regarding that
and said that you should learn..
Her response was epic
"Baawli na hoon mein...gadanjoge, khapparbharne, daatwe, jaadwe..."
'I am not so mad as to learn now...then some excellent abuses'
She was a simple soul
So simple that she considered her village as the whole universe
Was there something beyond 'kharkhoda' her village?
No, just forbidden zone..
She didn't know much about what was outside,
but she did know a taste of the inside..
that is lost to people now!
By - Manan sheel (Manu of the poem)
-----------------------
“And what about her grip?
the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm
and dragged them back to house
in the fear that they may get lost
Manu hated it,
for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!
how could he know that this lady, his grandmother
had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was
a nightmare to her!
She who lost her father's family to plague,
And then many of her children at birth..
how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!”
The Grip
Manu was playing in the upper part of the house, that
belonged to his ‘Fulad’ uncle and the family of ‘Fulad’ uncle.
Some ruined stairs connected this upper part of the house to the
lower house, that belonged to Manu’s ‘Raj’ uncle. Manu was
about to descend the stairs, when he saw the figure of his
paternal grandmother coming up through stairs. He couldn’t
return to his uncle’s house on the upper stairs, for the door had
been closed, by his uncle’s wife, for she had seen enough of
Manu’s naughtiness. There was nowhere to go. Manu’s
grandmother was approaching. Her face looked almost ghostly,
horrible, at one glance. It needed a look of love, a look laced with
love, to know what was hidden behind that ghostly face. It was a
sorrow, a kind of sorrow that was forgiven by the person who
contained it, and thus, transformed painfully, but successfully
into love, utter love. Manu was a sensitive boy, but being utterly
immature, he couldn’t comprehend his grandmother and was
afraid of her. Now, there was no place to escape for Manu. By the
time he could think of something, her grandmother, Lachmi, had
grabbed his arm by her nails. It was like a witch’s grip;
which Manu couldn’t escape. Manu was dragged downstairs, and
afterwards, the whole day, Manu made faces at her grandmother.
There was a reason for his grandmother, Lachmi, doing this. She
was afraid, in her soul, that Manu might get lost. Manu was the
child of ‘Lala’, her youngest child. Manu was dear to Lachmi,
more than any of her grandchildren. On Manu’s birth, she had
danced and sang, while beating the spoon frantically on a silver
plate. It was as if, when Manu was born, all her wishes had been
fulfilled, it felt like to her, that she had saved life from the
clutches of death, had been at last victorious against death. Oh! I
may now have to enter her soul to write further. My hands are
trembling, my soul is shedding tears in love, for a fever of love is
gripping me – the kind of fever that had gripped the soul of
Lachmi, for the larger part of her life. She had lost 9 of her
children at birth, by some unknown disease. Some were born,
and some equally loved, didn’t survive. One of the children died
between ‘Lala’ and ‘Munna’. It was like she was hoping that her
child will survive every time, and again it went out like a puff in
the air. From this, she came to know, imperceptibly, not in words,
but in her innermost core, the nature of love, the nature of hope,
the nature of madness, the nature of God. And thus, sung her
songs for the unseen one, that penetrated in every cell of her
body. Her capacity to love was ultimate. For she put her sorrow
into the colorful cloth parrots that she made for a living, and with
her art, magically, she reaped love from her sorrow.
Manu’s grandmother died when he was in 5th grade. He had cried
when they took her body to the cremation ground. Manu is now
28 years old. He has seen a lot of the so-called love of this world
– the sweet and selfish love. None of it is like the ocean of love
that was contained, in that grip, in that uneasy, witch’s grip.
© Manan sheel.
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